Hands!
by nipponophile
Summary: What tells the story of the Doctor and Donna's relationship?


_Disclaimer: One day, in my dreams the BBC, owner of the Doctor and Donna, will lure David and Catherine back for a complete, uninterrupted-by-other-companions series of adventures, togetherness and love._

**Hands!**

He sat on the floor, alone , inside the TARDIS, surrounded by the darkness without and within, tears streaming.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he thought that maybe, if he wished hard enough, he could make everything that reminded him of her, every trace, vanish.

Didn't happen, of course, it was all still there when he opened his eyes and from where he sat, out in the console room, he could even _smell_ some of the scents that were so evocative of her – her shampoo, that jasmine body cream she used, even the fabric softener of the towels in her (_then their, now…..no-one's_) bathroom.

But the things that reminded him of her most were the closest – and the most traitorous - of all, staring him mockingly in the face, not so easily dismissed.

His hands.

She'd often remarked on them, their long, slender fingers, their cool touch. At first, she had been strident in keeping them away from her – _We're mates, _no_ hands!_ – but that all changed quickly and she soon though nothing of letting them enfold her in embrace, or grasp her own, or even brush an errant strand of hair from her face. He had come to believe she actually rather liked them.

Of course, that was before he'd used them to violate her, lock her memory away, rob her of that very essence that she had always had but had not discovered until he – and his hands – had helped her see it.

_The Time Lord giveth and the Time Lord taketh away._

What use was it having hands that stopped wars and saved galaxies if they couldn't even hold on to a best friend?

He examined them, their smooth tautness belying the ancient mind that directed them, the timeless body that held them.

Hands that defined, revealed, expressed him. Just like Donna's did for her. Hands! (no hands) that had yet touched and reassured and adored almost from the very start – _had they known what they were really doing? Or were they simply the only parts of them articulate – brave – enough to express what was still hidden in their hearts?_

Their hands told the story of a shared journey, framed a picture of togetherness that had started off being jarring and abstract but ended up flowing and intricately _real_.

On a sunny Christmas day in London, hers that slapped him, his that wed her.

Hands that comforted, protected, shielded.

Welcome back and welcome aboard hands.

Her hands covering his, sharing his burdens.

His hands covering hers, teaching her how to be a part of his world, guiding her in ways they'd never shown anyone else.

Strong, elegant fingers revealing the mysteries of the universe.

Pale, freckled ones enlightening the mysteries of earth.

Linked hands, running, fearful, rescuing.

Joined hands strolling, laughing, being.

The key to his home, _my heart_, placed in her hands.

The delicate treasure of the courage to believe and become _more_ placed in his.

For safekeeping. _Trusting hands_.

_Have I ever told you how much I hate you? _Slapping hands once more, but then grasping, gripping, holding on for dear life. _Never want to lose you._

An _I'm always alright _hand holding another hand, finger delicately touching wrist. Best friend secretly wants to be a lover.

Hands that enclosed and wrapped around each other, holding tight, so tight. Taking away the nightmares, embracing in the day and in the night, every night until….until….. _I was gonna be with you. Forever._

His hand that at once saved the universe and sentenced a precious equal, a perfect partner.

Two more that caressed and loved even as they betrayed and stole – from her, but from himself, too, because she – her hands, her everything – was part of him, deep, deep inside.

_Whisper goodbye, try not to cry._

Failing.

He looked at his hands then with a loathing he had not felt even for his greatest enemy. If he had to get rid of anything, perhaps it should be these cursed parts, indelibly stained with the blood of so many innocents.

But he knew that even if he cut them off, somehow let them hack each other to pieces, it would still not be punishment, suffering enough for what he had done to her.

Taking a long, deep breath, he let his eyelids close for a moment, and it was as if she was right there in front of him, her and her crying, frightened yet _still trusting_ eyes, begging him to let her stay whole, to let her stay with him, even if it had to be in death.

But no, his hands had taken all of that, all of what she had become and they had become to each other, snatched it and thrown it away. _So easy. So agonising._

Yet despite this realisation, he could not get rid of his hated hands just yet, because he still needed them.

To tear out his hearts so that he didn't have to, _couldn't,_ feel anymore her gaping loss, feel _even now_ the touch of her warm, smooth, soft hands in his own, on his face, in his hair, down his sweat-slicked back.

And to set course for some place far, far away from the memories, far away from her. Somewhere where his now unrestrained hands would succumb to the megalomania and bloodletting that her hands could stop, if only he were holding them now.


End file.
